Just One More Lie
by EllaShay.AP
Summary: Grantaire is a drunk and a cynic, but a dark story stands in the background - a childhood full of heartache, the loss of those most dear to him, and tragedy in the place of all hope. Grantaire's story, told from beginning to end.
1. Chapter 1

**(A/N) This is my second story for Les Misérables. I decided this time to focus solely on a character we really know little about - Grantaire. All that is said of him is that he is a cynic, a drunk, and that he adores Enjolras with all of his heart, but there has to be a story lurking in the background. I adore Grantaire as a character, but I felt like there could be so much more to him. Please, enjoy and definitely review!**

The dark-haired boy played in the street. He couldn't have been more than nine, laughing and having a grand time with the other children. His nice clothes were dirtied, but he paid no mind. It wasn't until his mother came running and hurried him away that he began to wonder if he'd done something wrong. He looked back, watching the other boys continue their game without him, dressed in their stained, torn clothes as they were.

"Mama," he said as he dragged him toward his family's home, "I wasn't doing anything bad, I promise. We were just playing ball."

"Yes, and _just playing ball _is precisely the problem," she snapped cruelly, "I _told _you to stay in the yard. You are not to go _play ball _again, do you hear me?"

Tears were filling the little boy's eyes. He stared at his mother, hair graying and mouth pursed in a tight line. "But – but – but why? They're my friends," he questioned quietly.

She stopped dead and wheeled on him. She let go of his hand and knelt down to his level. "André Alexandre Grantaire, I raised you better then to play with those _urchins _from the gutter! They are _not _your friends and you will _not _play with them again, do you understand?"

The boy was crying now. "But Mama -," he started, but she cut him off.

"_Do you understand?" _ She snarled.

He nodded and she stood back up and took his hand roughly again in hers. They walked a few hundred meters, out of the limits of the tiny town of Séry-Magneval. She tugged him roughly down the road, back to the extensive grounds that belonged to the Grantaire family. The drive was lined with massive pine trees, and at the end, the trees gave way to a massive home that was all white. Nearly a thousand acres of land were attached to the home. Mostly, André felt lost in all of it – all of the bustling maids and the huge property and the pristine order of everything – so he slipped off to the town whenever he could to find kinder company. He adored the boys there, and they'd welcomed him so willingly into their games. André's mother, however, would have none of it.

"Go upstairs," she ordered when the butler opened the front door. André gave his mother one last look, hoping for some sort of pity, but there was none. He hurried up the right side of the beautiful spiraling staircase, his shoes losing traction, just as they always did, on the perfectly polished floors. As soon as his feet hit the upstairs landing, he allowed himself to cry. His mother was always so strict and stern.

_She doesn't even love me, _he thought between his sobs.

As she picked his way down the hall to his bedroom, a voice called to him from behind one of the mahogany doors. "André, is that you?" It was his father's voice.

André pushed a door open and stepped into his father's study. It was his favorite room in the entire house. Books lined all of the walls, and great windows cast light over it all. A soft red rug with gold embellishment covered the floor, and on top of it, a pair of the most comfortable sofas André had ever sat on (and bounciest he had ever jumped on). His father sat behind a dark wooden desk, pen in hand. He looked up as his son entered the room.

"What's the matter, son?" he asked kindly.

André shook his head, not wanting to speak about it. His mother always got upset if he told his father when they had had a disagreement.

Monsieur Grantaire put his pen down and pushed his chair back. He patted his lap and his son smiled. André walked over, already stopping his tears, and climbed into his father's arms.

"Now, tell me, what did you and Mama disagree about today?" Monsieur Grantaire asked.

His son still did not reply.

"I promise, I won't tell her you told me," he said with a smile.

André looked at him with too much sadness in his eyes for a little boy. "She'll know anyway. She _always _knows."

Monsieur Grantaire laughed. "Aye, your Mama has that way about her, but I promise I won't let her get upset with you for telling me what happened."

The boy sighed. "She says I'm not allowed to play with my friends in the village."

Monsieur Grantaire smiled knowingly. "She just doesn't want you to get your clothes dirty."

André shook his head. "I wore the clothes Mama doesn't like. See?" he said, gesturing at his outfit. "She even lets me ride Max in this." Max was the boy's horse, an expensive Lipizzaner stallion imported directly from Italy. The horse had cost Monsieur Grantaire a fortune, but his wife had assured him that she would ride the horse every day, and so he paid. That was eleven years before, and now, the horse had been passed on to their son long after she had lost interest.

"Well, that's very silly of your Mama, then." Monsieur Grantaire said. "Of course every young boy needs to have friends. I'll have a talk with her about it."

"No! You promised you wouldn't tell!" André stared at his father with a look of horror on his face.

His father smiled. "And I _also _promised that I wouldn't let her get upset with you. Now, run along. I have to finish some things up, alright? Then you and I will take the horses out. How does that sound?"

André gave his father a hug and a kiss on the cheek and then ran to his bedroom, a new spring in his step.

He had always loved his father best. His father was never coarse or angry, even when André did something foolish. He was soft-spoken almost all of the time, unless he was arguing with Mama. Together, father and son would spend whole days at a time out riding horses or on fishing trips or tramping around out in the woods, searching for deer trails. They were inseparable unless Monsieur Grantaire had work to attend to – he was, long ago, a general in the French military, but now, he mostly stayed at home, doing paperwork. In the evenings, he read stories to his son before the boy fell asleep. It was he, and not the boy's mother, that tucked little André into bed, and it was he that kissed him goodnight. He was a good man with a big heart and lots of kindness about him, and there was nothing he was more proud of then his child.


	2. Chapter 2

The days went by. André stopped sneaking out to see his friends in Séry-Magneval for the time being, praying to not upset his mother, and for the most part, he succeeded. Madame Grantaire stalked about as she usually did, but she didn't seem particularly hostile. She even read him a story one evening when his father was too busy, but she didn't do it as well, André thought.

One glorious afternoon, when Monsieur Grantaire had too much work to do to play, André preoccupied himself by brushing Max. He wasn't allowed to ride the stallion without one of his parents or his nanny to watch, but he still enjoyed spending time with the horse. Outside of the boys on the street, Max was André's only friend. The horse was who he confided in, who he went to in tears. Max stood nearly eighteen hands tall, and it always made Madame Grantaire extremely nervous to allow her son to handle such a huge animal, but Max was gentle and kind, and he seemed to love the little boy as much as the boy loved him.

"Papa doesn't want to play today, Max," André murmured into the horse's fur. He brushed the horse's legs, and the great stallion arched his neck and nuzzled the little boy's back. André scratched him behind the ears in return.

"André?" Monsieur Grantaire's voice sounded in the barn.

André turned and saw his father standing in the doorway. "Papa?" he asked.

Monsieur Grantaire walked up to the boy and the horse, and patted Max on the shoulder. He turned to André. "You want to go have a game?"

"I thought you had to work," André said.

Monsieur Grantaire smiled. "I thought I could put it down for a little bit. Come on, put the big guy away and we'll play soldiers."

André grabbed hold of Max's lead rope and led him back into the stall. Monsieur Grantaire chuckled lightly to himself, watching the great stallion nudging the little boy in the back. André unclipped Max's halter and latched his stall door. He tossed some grain into the horse's bin and then trotted happily back to his father.

"Come on," Monsieur Grantaire said. He picked up his son and hoisted him over his shoulder. André was squealing happily.

Monsieur Grantaire carried him into the yard and dropped to the grass, both of them laughing hysterically. Monsieur Grantaire rolled André over, tickling him. The boy kicked and squirmed.

"Papa, you _said _we'd play _soldiers!" _André cried between strangled breaths.

Monsieur Grantaire chuckled. "Alright, alright!" He stood up, brushing himself off. He strode over to a big maple tree in the yard and broke a pair of big branches off. He handed one of the sticks to André.

"Alright, here you go! Your gun. I'm on that side," he pointed to one side of the yard. "You're over there," he told André, gesturing to the other. "Ready?"

André nodded.

"Alright, on three! One, two," the two of them readied themselves and on "three," they sprinted to their designated sides of the yard. André dove behind a hedge and sighted in his stick, aiming at his father, who was still running. "Pow pow pow!" he yelled.

Monsieur Grantaire danced around, dodging the invisible bullets flying around in the air. He darted behind the big maple and aimed his own stick. "Pow pow!" he cried.

"Missed!" André yelled. The boy darted out from behind the bush. He waited for his father's stick to poke out from behind the tree. "Pow pow!" he shouted, charging forward with an imaginary bayonet.

The game went on for some time, both parties exchanging fire. Eventually, though, the game turned from a game of soldiers to father chasing son through the yard. Monsieur Grantaire let his son outrun him, shouting, "I'm going to catch you!" but he didn't until the last moments of the game. He caught up to André and grabbed him around the waist. André laughed happily, shouting, "No, Papa, you're cheating, you're cheating!"

"Oh no I'm not!" Monsieur Grantaire replied, again tickling his son's sides.

That night, Monsieur Grantaire tucked his son into bed with a bedtime story. André was asleep before he had even read two whole pages. Monsieur Grantaire pulled the sheets under his son's chin and kissed him on the forehead.

"Love you," he whispered, and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

The next morning, André woke near midday. He ran immediately to his father's study, still in his pajamas, and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He darted to the bedroom, and then to the kitchen, the living room, and the barn, but he could not find his father. Eventually, he searched his mother out instead. He found her in her bathroom, tying her hair back in a firm bun like she always wore.

"Mama, where's Papa?" he asked.

"Oh, he's on business in Paris. He'll be back in a few days," she replied, not looking up.

André nodded and left the room again.

He didn't know it at that moment, but he would never see his father again. A man of wealth, class and power. One bullet from an angry man – that's all it takes. The gunman never knew the goodness that was in the heart of the man he killed.


	3. Chapter 3

Mama was crying. André could hear her strangled sobs from behind her bedroom door. He couldn't ever remember her crying before. Something must have been wrong. He knocked.

"Mama, are you alright?" he asked kindly, hoping she wouldn't become upset with him.

"André? Come in, please," she called between breaths.

He pushed the door open and walked into the bedroom. Madame Grantaire was curled up on her bed, wearing her favorite day dress. She sat up when she saw him.

"Come here," she said, tears streaking her face. She opened her arms and he walked into them. He was extremely confused. She had never given hugs often.

"André, I want you to know that I love you very, very much," she whispered into his curly black hair. He could feel her tears against his scalp.

He nodded into her chest. "I love you too, Mama."

She released him and held him at arm's length. "I have some very bad news," she told him. He stared into her watery eyes, wondering what could have possibly broken her so badly.

"Your Papa," she started, and then paused, searching for the words, "isn't coming home."

André didn't say a thing. He didn't understand.

Madame Grantaire saw this, and tried to explain more plainly, but the grief was so evident. "Darling, Papa – Papa passed away yesterday."

In that instant, a child's entire world was shattered. André Grantaire loved his father with all of his heart, and most of the time, wanted nothing more than his company. His father was the most wonderful man he knew, and he aspired to be just like him in every way. Now, though, there was nobody for André to look up to, and there was nobody to protect him when it seemed like the sky was falling down upon him.

Just like it was now.

André couldn't speak. His throat was constricting. He couldn't breathe. The little boy, not even ten years old, said nothing. He gave his mother one final look before turning and darting out of the room. She called after him, but he did not turn. He tore down the steps, tears falling freely now, and bolted out the front door. The butler watched him go, but did not give chase. André tore into the stable and immediately went to Max. The grey stallion put his head over his stall door and nuzzled the little boy's cheek, as though trying to wipe the tears away.

André wrapped his arms around the horse's neck and cried into his thick mane. Boy and horse stood there for some time, neither one moving. Max breathed gently, and the sound of his heartbeat comforted André. The horse, it seemed, was now truly his only companion.

"Papa's gone," he whispered to the horse. Max exhaled gently on his ear. "I want to go away, too, boy," André said, and then an idea struck him underneath the pain and the tears. There was nothing here for him anymore without his father. The house was too big, the grounds were too lonely, and his mother was much too angry all the time. He could just go, anywhere in the world, and make a new life for himself. The little nine-year-old boy convinced himself, in that moment, that his idea could work. He could go to Paris and live and work and become a general, just like his father, and he could ride his horse there. He knew the way. Or, at least, he knew that his father always made a right out of the driveway when he left to go to the city.

André saddled Max the best he could without help. The saddle was crooked, as he had to practically throw it onto the horse's back, even when he was standing on a bucket. Max stood patiently, ears flicking about as the boy moved around him. Once the saddle was on, André climbed on Max's back and guided him out of the stable. Once the horse's hooves hit the gravel, André dug his heels into his sides. Max sprang forward gracefully and galloped down the drive. André was acutely aware of someone shouting his name somewhere behind him, but he didn't look back to see who it was. At the bottom of the drive, he guided Max to the right, and the horse cantered easily down the dirt road. They were really a site to behold – a petite boy astride an absolutely massive stallion, but riding perfectly in sync.

André cantered Max down the road, guessing at each turn, for nearly an hour. He was still thinking of his father, and he couldn't seem to make the tears go away.

_Not coming back, not coming back, not coming back, _repeated over and over in his head in perfect rhythm to the sound of Max's hooves on the ground. After a time, the sound of sprinkling rain was added to the beat, making everything glisten and shine. The going became slick, but André didn't know any better than to keep the horse running. Max was light-footed and elegant, but an experienced horseman would know that he was struggling to keep his feet.

After a time, André decided that it would be quicker to cut across country to get to Paris (even though he had no idea what direction Paris was even in) so he hauled Max sharply off the side of the road and onto a grassy field, damp with rain. Max bawled, not expecting the sudden direction, but he recovered and leapt from dirt to grass. As soon as his hooves hit the field, however, he completely lost traction and his forelegs slid out from underneath him.

André was flung from the saddle and Max collapsed into a heap. The boy landed hard, and he remained on the ground for several minutes. When he finally opened his eyes again, he saw Max standing beside him. André's heart nearly stopped completely when he saw that the horse was holding his left foreleg off of the ground, and that the leg was twisted at an awkward angle. André crawled over to Max, still not finding the strength to stand. He tried to put a hand on the leg, but Max pulled it away even at the slightest touch. In one spot, the flesh was torn and a fragment of bone stuck out. A thin trail of blood plastered the snow-white fur.

All André could think of was something his father said long ago. "A horse is no good without four good legs. A horse breaks a leg, there's no hope for him, son."

_No hope. _ André reached over and stroked his horse's good leg.

"It'll be alright," he whispered, "I promise." Max bent his great neck down and breathed a labored breath into André's hair.

"I promise," André whispered again, but suddenly he didn't believe it. Nothing would ever be alright again. _Nothing. _Papa was gone and he would never come back. André had nobody to love him, no matter what his mother said. And nobody would help him now. The world seemed so lonely and much too big. There was nowhere to go, nobody for him to turn to.

André curled up into a ball in the pouring rain, praying deep within his soul for some solace. After a time, Max lowered himself gingerly to the ground and André curled up against his side, burying his sorrows in the warmth of the only friend he had ever truly known.


End file.
